“molten mud” by Kirk Griffith

in this night

you seem to me

to be modest as mud

malleable as molten glass

caked with rich earth

encased in barbed wire

holy offering of surrender

upon this field of primal battle

and as i follow you down

into the depth of your longing

you summit the swollen heights

of our shared pinnacle of pleasure

and your name now becomes an echo

heard throughout this vast nowhere land

reverberating your journey across the night

to the location of this last stand rendezvous

glued to cues and clues signifying

servitude to the symbolism of sex

and the desperate voices crying

from their cultural confinement

and the dark night howling anguish

in savage visions spun by dreams

and yet

you have found your way

to this your rightful ritual

of lasting lust endowment

and as the bittersweet lullaby of your lost youthful glory

plays lamentation in the innocent longing of your eyes

you begin to connect the missing pieces of the puzzle

that was you and is you now on the verge of becoming

at last safe

at last secure

in this our trust

soulfully we unite

with more truth than a thunder head

with more inevitability than a sinking ship

and as you rise from the lower depths

of a despair that once seemed eternal

you succumb to new beatitude bliss

and as you gaze inward deeply

once tired forms are reborn

into the image of a kiss

and the all of who you are

is now within the easy grasp

of your lovely mud stained hand

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This has been “molten mud” by Kirk Griffith, Story Two in Series One of Sleepless Stories.

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